Read Online Biting Nixie by Mary Hughes - Free Book Online Page A

sounded.”
    â€œI’m sure you didn’t.”
    â€œYeah. Well. Um, what about Cutter? It looked like you chopped off his coconut.”
    Julian shook his head. “Nixie. Think how unlikely that is. A human neck has bone an inch thick. Tough muscle. Tendons and cartilage. And I sliced through that with a chef’s knife?”
    â€œWell…I saw blood.”
    â€œYes. I hit Cutter in the head with the hilt of my knife. To knock him out. Head wounds bleed a lot.”
    â€œOh. And the thing you tossed to the rest of the gang?”
    â€œA bundle of cash. A bribe. Good heavens, Nixie, I’m a lawyer, not a superhero. You didn’t think I physically threatened a dangerous gang, did you?”
    I flushed. “No, of course not. Oh, look. There’s the club.” Conveniently, for my embarrassment. “Time for auditions.”
    The Kosmopolitisch was the Meiers Corners equivalent of the Bronze in the Buffy universe. It had live music all the time. Most of it was pretty lame, but when you were a high schooler, who knew? And really, who cared? For most non-musicians, clubbing was all about drinking and getting laid. The music was just what got you in the mood.
    Tonight was normally open mic night at the club. With less than two weeks until the festival, I’d strong-armed the manager into slotting my bands in instead, not that any of the dozen couples making out would notice.
    Julian and I got there just as the first band was setting up. It was a group called Death Turkeys—two guys and a drum machine. You can see why I needed to do auditions.
    Before they could strike their first chord there was a click and the lights went out.
    The blackness was so absolute I could feel it. Like black cotton balls in my eyes. I remembered the last two times the lights went out and grabbed for Julian’s arm. I clutched fine worsted wool. “What is it?” More attackers? More…blood?
    â€œI don’t know. Stay here.” He rose.
    I clutched tighter. No way. No way he was leaving me when there might be muggers, or attackers, or…or something worse.
    Julian’s warm hand slipped over mine. Gently, he worked my fingers loose. Before he could get away I grabbed on with the other hand. “My dry cleaner is going to hate me,” he complained mildly, sitting back down. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to wrinkle onto something other than my suit?”
    â€œI can’t see.” Except I was beginning to be able to see a little. A thin beam of moonlight was just dusting the surroundings into shadowy shapes. The band guys milled in confusion on the stage. Or maybe they were trying to play. They strummed their guitars, getting little toy guitar twinkles for their efforts.
    The Kosmopolitisch’s manager, Cary Grant, was hopping around like a crazed monkey, pointlessly flipping light switches. Yeah, I know. And if anyone was less like the debonair actor it was this guy. He was short, he was hairy, and he could have played Gimli in Lord of the Rings. But Cary Grant wasn’t the manager’s real name. He was born Archibald Leach.
    Anyway, Grant was flipping hard, click-click-click, but nothing was happening. So he dashed to the bar so fast he did a half-gainer over the edge. “I’m okay!” He jumped up and frantically tried various appliances. Empty clicks told me he had no greater success than he had trying to turn on the lights.
    Surprisingly, the couples making out didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. Or maybe that wasn’t surprising, considering their preoccupation. “I can see a little,” I amended. “But not enough.” Not enough to see if bad guys were coming.
    â€œAll right. Hang on.” Julian rose again, this time taking me with him.
    We wound our way through tables to the bar. Cary Grant had given up pushing buttons and flipping switches in favor of more brute force. Right now he was shaking the